


Pleasure is the Law

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Dating, First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is solely based on the line that keeps on giving, "Why not date you?" and my own personal hope that they'll start dating awkwardly on the show for an episode or two.  I doubt the results of it would be quite as smutty, but one can only hope.  Title stolen from this quote of Debussy's in which he sticks it to the Man (i.e., conventional musical tonal hierarchy or whatever): "There is no theory.  You have only to listen.  Pleasure is the law."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Pleasure is the Law

**Author's Note:**

> This is solely based on the line that keeps on giving, "Why not date you?" and my own personal hope that they'll start dating awkwardly on the show for an episode or two. I doubt the results of it would be quite as smutty, but one can only hope. Title stolen from this quote of Debussy's in which he sticks it to the Man (i.e., conventional musical tonal hierarchy or whatever): "There is no theory. You have only to listen. Pleasure is the law."

**Title:** Pleasure is the Law  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** Season 5 ish. But if you want to get specific, somewhere after 'Birthmarks', and before 'Simple Explanation'.  
 **Author's Notes:** This is solely based on the line that keeps on giving, "Why not date you?" and my own personal hope that they'll start dating awkwardly on the show for an episode or two. I doubt the results of it would be quite as smutty, but one can only hope. Title stolen from this quote of Debussy's in which he sticks it to the Man (i.e., conventional musical tonal hierarchy or whatever): "There is no theory. You have only to listen. Pleasure is the law."

 

 

House slaps the tickets onto Wilson's desk, making him jump. Watches Wilson carefully places his papers aside and holds up said tickets for scrutiny, face leaping from confusion to surprise to suspicion.

"And?" Wilson says.

"It's _The Importance of Being Earnest_. It's on Wednesday night."

". . . And?"

"Are you busy?"

"Um." It's hilarious how Wilson can't figure him out. "Since when do you hold earnestness in such high esteem?"

"Do you really want to keep this entire conversation in the form of a question?"

Poker face. "Why not?"

"You know my theory about plays, right?"

"If I didn't would I be freaking out right now?"

" _Are_ you freaking out?"

"Are you asking me on a _date_?"

"Are you free Wednesday night?"

"I, um, I mean, yes, but—"

"Pick me up at 7:30." And House lets the door close on his way out.

 

*

 

When House walks in on Thursday morningish he's half-forgotten that showing up at work means being ambushed by your underlings with nonsense about symptoms or impending death or whatever the hell it is they're baffled by this time.

"Woah, woah. Don't you wanna know why I'm in such a glowingly good mood?"

"Hadn't noticed," Taub says. "We've got a patient with—"

"No, seriously. Ask me why—oh, hang on a minute."

He catches sight of Wilson trying to sneak past his office undetected, labcoat on and clutching something to his chest.

"Wilson!" House shouts, waving his cane around wildly to get his attention. Kutner ducks. "Get in here!" Turns to them as Wilson pushes through the door. "Hey, did you guys know Wilson is _gay_?"

The door shuts again. "You asked _me_ out. What do you want?"

"Uh, never said it was a date." He's doing this solely for his team's benefit, half-facing them.

"Actually you did. It was a date; _House_ is gay," Wilson tells their audience. "Now, do you have some cancer for me or what?"

Taub's the brave one: "Could be . . . parents on both sides had cancer."

"And yet you aren't showing me the scan to prove it," House dismisses, busy having a staring contest with Wilson. " _You_ suggested dating in the first place."

"I . . . _so_?"

"He had a heart attack," Thirteen says, ignoring them. "Maybe we should be concentrating on that instead of going on a wild cancer chase."

"Yeah, go do an ECHO or something." Stage whispers to Wilson: "Let's not argue in front of the kids, okay hon?"

They stand there staring at each other, Wilson making delightful annoyed faces, while the team files out silently.

"How was it a date?" House isn't going to let this go.

"Just because nothing happened doesn't mean—"

"Of course it does. 'Date' implies that there's a little somethin' somethin' to go with the dinner and a movie."

"McDonald's and a play," Wilson corrects. "And if that's all you remember about dating etiquette then I'm curious to know exactly what kind of dates you think I went on with Cuddy."

House had . . . not exactly _forgotten_ about that, but . . . "Well, let me just say that I'm expecting some properly date-like conduct tonight." Waggles his eyebrows.

"What do you take me for? Some common whore who gives away goodnight kisses on the first date?"

"Come to think of it, I do."

"I'm . . . not actually as easy as you like to imply. Loudly in the hallway and on numerous occasions. Sorry."

"We'll see. Pick me up at six."

Wilson regards him suspiciously for a minute. "Why? Where are we going?"

"Well it _was_ a surprise romantic getaway before you had to go and _ruin_ it by asking . . ."

Wilson snickers. "See you at six." Leaves.

 

*

 

"Isn't it romantic?" Wilson states as they enter the Perkins. "Only to be young on such a night as this . . ."

"What'd you expect, the Ritz? This is cheap and I'm paying, so . . ." He notices the bubbly hostess who's bubbling at them.

"Two?" she bubbles.

"Are you blind? Can't you see there's three of us?"

"Um, so do you want an extra chair or . . ."

"One plus one equals two. Now can we get some service here?"

Wilson smiles apologetically at the girl on the way to the table. Says _thank you_ when they're handed menus. "Did you know that, as a doctor, you also make quite a lot of perfectly good money that you could use for . . . narcotics? Hookers. TiVo. Whatever else you do in your spare time. So I'm curious, why the continued insistence upon stealing _my_ money?"

"To prove that money isn't everything." House lowers his menu. "That the romantic gesture you were looking for?"

"Robbery? Not quite, but I'll take what I can get at this point." Wilson glances down at his own menu. "Are you seriously going to pay for me?"

House looks up. "I'd be a pretty cheap date if I didn't."

Wilson looks back for awhile. Then, "Give me your wallet."

"What, you don't tru—?"

"No."

House rolls his eyes, digs his wallet out of his jacket and slides it across the table. "Satisfied?"

House does end up paying for Wilson's particularly expensive combination of appetizer, entrée, and dessert, and Wilson can't quite believe it's happened.

The majority of their conversations take place over food, so tonight feels less like a date than last night.

That is, until he walks House to the door.

There's a definite expectation now. Wilson doesn't know how they'd sidestepped this awkward juncture before, but it was certainly here with a vengeance now.

"Aren't you going to say goodnight?" House asks, baiting him, eyebrows raised and pulling such a silly face Wilson can't help laughing.

" _Fine_ ," Wilson says, still laughing as his mouth brushes House's. Wilson's eyes are open and he sees House's expression disappear like lighting, isn't sure if House's soft gasp is real or imagined. House's lips, nudging at Wilson's so Wilson has to move his in tandem because that's just polite, isn't it? It's just the protocol. Like a handshake. Like a handshake that sends heat up his spine and shivery anticipation to his gut. House's mouth on Wilson's, his scent so relevant all of a sudden and drowning the whole world out blissfully. House's hand on his arm when they switch the angle, the kiss getting deeper terrifyingly fast. Wilson moans and House pushes him back a little, breaks it.

Wilson gapes. He can _feel_ how wide his eyes are. He's panting into House's mouth, or maybe it's the other way around . . .

"Goodnight, House," he says all at once, nearly tripping over him in his haste to escape.

"Goodnight, Wilson."

 

*

 

"What are these?" House points at the bundle in Wilson's hand with his cane.

"These? Flowers." Wilson holds them up, daisies rustling.

"Yes, I know that. Why are they _here_?"

"You've bought me flowers before!" Wilson's so crestfallenly confused in House's doorway it's making House want to kiss him.

"Only to trap you into admitting you like Cuddy. You stole that from the nurse's station didn't you?"

"Not exactly." Wilson looks guilty and House wonders if someone gave _him_ the flowers in the first place, and then wonders who it was and why Wilson won't tell him and . . .

"Before you attempt to analyze this any further," Wilson says, holding up his free hand, "you could at least put them in some water like a normal person."

"Yeah, yeah. Come on." House makes his way over to the kitchen, hears Wilson following, the slow, hip-driven gait he's adopted to best keep pace with House's hobbling.

"Maybe I got you flowers precisely because I wanted to trap you into admitting something."

House watches Wilson try to hold the bouquet and one-handedly search for a glass in the cupboard, eventually has to snatch the flowers away and roll his eyes. "You're doing it wrong. I'm not supposed to know they're from you, idiot."

"Fill this up with water." Wilson's handing him a beer mug with something dumb written on it. House just stares at it until Wilson sighs and walks through House to get to the faucet. House doesn't move though, half his body against Wilson's by force of stubbornness, standing there and waiting with the stupid bouquet still in his hand.

"You know I'm throwing these away the second you leave. Possibly before."

Wilson takes the flowers back, fingers wrestling with House's for a minute, plops them in the mug and shoves it back on the counter. His hands have finally gone to his hips by the time he turns to face him again and House feels victorious—hands-on-hips exasperation is a much sought after goal in his everyday life, and Wilson does it so attractively.

"So where are we going tonight? We did the play thing, the dinner thing. You're the dating—sorry, marriage expert. What's next?" House hopes he counts sarcastic enough, hopes Wilson can't hear his heart pounding from watching Wilson's eyes, bright in the shadows, from noticing the exposed skin at his open collar.

They go for drinks before the 8 o'clock showing of _Twilight_ , which is really the only sensible way to approach it. They're definitely the only people old enough to drive in the theater and they laugh the whole way through it. House even manages to reach for the popcorn right when Wilson does a couple of times, gets to hear Wilson mutter apologies and go tense, hopefully blushing in the darkness.

The movie gets to be too much of a bore even for House about an hour in, so he elbows Wilson and they make their escape right in the middle of a dramatic, oppressively colorless 'love' scene.

The car ride back features Wilson's vampire impressions, House's demands for food, and the way Wilson's laughter and rolled up sleeves and hands gripping and relaxing on the wheel make House's heart jump around nervously between his complaints.

Wilson promises to cook something when they get back to House's apartment, providing there's anything to work with (there isn't), and they talk about that instead of negotiating goodnight kisses at the door.

When they're laughing in the kitchen about House's lack of groceries it occurs to him that they're right back where they started. That he could just knock the measuring cup out of Wilson's hand and kiss him against the sink and the dumb bouquet of flowers without further ado and maybe Wilson wouldn't mind.

House might as well test this theory.

Luckily the measuring cup doesn't collide with the flowers or shatter onto the floor, just thunks into the sink in the middle of the surprised noise Wilson makes.

House captures the bewildered hand that'd been holding it and pulls it back to Wilson's side, transfers his own hands to the heat of Wilson's body, moving from hips through interrupting belt to chest and firmly back to hips. Wilson just breathes and blinks at him before they wind up kissing and his arms slip around House's neck for support.

The muffled, helpless sounds coming from Wilson's mouth are driving House crazy, and the kiss has more or less picked up from where it left off last night, only concerned with tongues and sliding, open mouths rather than nervousness and meaning.

Wilson's weight shifts gradually forward until House stumbles back against the kitchen table, hears it scuff against the floor and set some pots wobbling. House's hands lose their grip on Wilson during the move and Wilson takes the opportunity to grab his wrists, pull House's arms out of the way and press up against him while licking a line down House's throat.

House watches Wilson's face as much as is possible, concentrates on his accelerated breathing and busy tongue and insistent body against his, concentrates on his own heartbeat and arousal, both of which are spiraling out of control by the time they're kissing again.

House's hands push up Wilson's front, balling his shirt in his fists and knocking him off balance to get him against a proper wall, shoes scraping across the kitchen tiles and Wilson's mouth detaching wetly. Wilson's moan when his back meets the wall and the kiss resumes, his teeth getting involved this time around.

Wilson's hair isn't silky—it's kind of clogged with product and it's not as long as it used to be, back in the days of some of House's better fantasies, but running his fingers through it and Wilson's hands mapping House's torso randomly while he's kissed and every time he makes even the tiniest sound . . .

The clock in the living room chimes as if in disapproval, making Wilson start involuntarily and breaking the kiss.

They stare at each other for a beat.

"Well, it's late," Wilson pants, hands frozen on House. "I should really get going."

"It's 9:30," House points out, voice weirdly breathier than usual. The hand in Wilson's hair tightens just a bit.

"Yeah, but, um, work. Tomorrow there's work."

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"Yes." Wilson's determined to go with it. "And so much work to be done before the weekend's over. I'll just go now, and . . . House, stop trying to pull my hair out."

House sighs, lets go, steps back. "Well you're no fun."

Wilson's dreamy-eyed and disheveled, meaning he really needs to get the hell out of there before House fully commits to the temptation of ravishing him on the kitchen counter.

Wilson moves closer to kiss him again, wet and warm, murmurs, "Goodnight, House," and leaves before House can find his voice.

 

*

 

The familiarity of the place is completely eluding him, kind of blurred around the edges in light of how good Wilson feels. They're stumbling again like in the kitchen when the world skips like a tape and House goes from kissing down Wilson's body to bending him over the desk and pushing deep inside him, both of them shuddering.

Wilson reaches out to grab something when House starts to move, knocks it over and House can't figure out the significance of whatever it was, concentrates on the way Wilson's groans fluctuate with his thrusts. House closes his eyes.

Something hits the floor. House opens his eyes and for some reason he and the desk and Wilson are now located on the roof of the hospital.

"I _knew_ it! God!" somebody screeches.

Wilson moves back against House, encouraging. "Fuck off, Stacy, it's not like you ever really cared . . . mm, yes . . ."

She's sitting in the desk chair, arms crossed and livid and dressed for work. It freaks House out.

"Just ignore her, House," Wilson tells him, unperturbed. "And keep _going_ , God . . ."

House can't explain why but he does, closes his eyes against her anger and gives himself over to the breathtaking, heated pressure of Wilson's body around him . . .

" _House!_ " It's not Stacy this time—House knows _this_ exceptionally grating female voice all too well.

"I'm kinda busy here, so the clinic duty lecture's gonna have to wait."

This time the desk— _Cuddy's_ desk, he realizes—is in the middle of House's conference room and she and his team are gathered around it. Wilson waves cheerfully at them and House rolls his eyes, speeds up his thrusts to wipe the smirk off his face.

Cuddy just stares at them in shock. Taub snickers with Kutner and Foreman mutters something about Chase owing him fifty bucks. Thirteen, however, stands there reading a file and looking professional, apparently oblivious to Wilson's moans and the sounds of their bodies slapping together.

"The patient keeps saying he has muscle cramps and we always just believed him. We _should_ look for kidney stones, I mean, everybody lies, right?" Thirteen looks to him for input.

The idea of fucking Wilson while carrying on a differential is an unexpected turn on, so House responds: "I knew I hired you for a reason. Other symptoms?"

Thirteen smiles, dropping the file and slipping out of her labcoat, fingers lingering on the buttons of her shirt, up and down. "New patient. Female, late twenties. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. Long legs and an open . . . mind. _Very_ frustrated."

House's jaw drops, fantasies going haywire . . .

"I'm sick of women, House," Wilson tells him in-between gasps.

"Knew you were gay." And then House goes back to fucking him without distraction, all the other people in the room fading away. Wilson writhes and mutters his name and—

**_Mmmmbop! Ticka ta, ba, dooobop, do-ee da ba . . ._ **

House sits straight up in his bed, panting and hard and pissed off when he realizes the sunlight and lack of Wilson means he'd been dreaming. Answers the phone to bitch at his damn infantile team.

 

 

*

 

And that's how House finds himself looking up blowjobs on WikiAfterDark.com instead of reading the patient file. If nothing else, it was an entertaining read.

Someone knocks on his office door and he scrambles to open his backup website on Erdheim-Chester disease.

"It's eleven o'clock," Cuddy announces. "Why aren't you in the clinic?"

House tries to come up with a retort but all he can think about is his subconscious fucking her over by fucking Wilson over her desk.

What can he say about the drapey pink ensemble she's put together today? Not _too_ revealing. About her makeup? Nothing unusual. Weight gain? She's been rocking the skin and bones look as hard as Thirteen lately.

". . . _What?_ "

"Nothing. Just wondering if the baby is seeing as much of those as the rest of the world," House says, gesturing vaguely at her chest. "I've got a patient."

"You don't have a patient—I never authori—" House throws the patient file at her, clicks busily on the computer while she reads it, waits for her inevitable sigh. "Fine."

House waits some more but nothing seems forthcoming. He catches sight of her expression and wonders if she's maybe learned to read minds and found out about his dream. " _What?_ "

"I . . ." Cuddy takes a step closer, can't figure out where to look. "Are you and Wilson really dating? Not just as a joke?"

House raises his eyebrows. "He _wishes_. Any more stupid questions or can I get back to saving my patient's life?"

Cuddy presses her lips together, goes to leave.

"Why—he say something?"

Cuddy laughs. "I can never tell when he's lying." She leaves and House might feel a little sorry for her.

 

*

 

"So word has it you went whining to Cuddy about your blossoming romance with me. And by word I of course mean her words."

Wilson's forkful of salad stops halfway to his mouth. Oh, shit. "Um . . ."

"Aha!" House says too loudly, prompting the people at the next table over to shoot them dirty looks. Wilson sighs.

"Would you like me to recount our en _tire_ conversation?"

House frowns, tilts his head. "Yep. Here—I'll be Cuddy." He clears his throat and continues in falsetto: "Oh, Dr. Wilson, I'm just so lonely underneath all my professional success and you're such a _great_ listener even though, let's face it, my womanly charms are fading fast—" He stops himself, looks contemplative. "Oh sorry, that was actually my impression of your first wife, uh, whatshername."

He's not actually that far off the mark about that. Wilson takes a drink of water to buy time. "Okay, well, here's my impression of _you_." And he speaks as gruffly as possible: "Oh, Dr. Wilson, I'm just so lonely underneath all my professional success and you're (debatably) willing to listen to me whine and, all right, let's face it—my womanly charms really are fading at an alarming rate . . ."

"Oh aren't you clever," House says, catching sight of a little dessert menu propped against the salt and pepper. He snatches it up with long fingers and regards it as suspiciously as he would an x-ray that won't show him what he wants. "Will you still pay for me if I order this Triple Chocolate Catastrophe thing?"

Wilson smiles a little. "What do you think?"

Back at House's apartment, about three minutes into the pathetic local news, Wilson finds out that the dessert was worth the ten bucks he spent on it, finds elusive sweetness on House's tongue while he's being pressed into the couch cushions and having his mouth attacked.

Somehow House's kiss and body and arousal don't overwhelm Wilson as much as the mingling of laundry detergent on his shirt, the chocolate in his mouth, and the enticing scent of whatever random, never-before-used cologne he must've unearthed and applied on a whim before Wilson picked him up.

Wilson tries not to make _too_ many enthusiastic noises but then House is fumbling with Wilson's shirt and sucking on his neck and Wilson's forced to let out a slightly delirious moan. His fingers shake while he undoes his tie to speed the process along, suddenly a much more complicated task than it has been every evening for twenty years.

After some struggle with his shirt Wilson falls back onto the couch, skin sticking to leather, lies there wondering when they'd gone from playing elaborate mind games and trying to psyche each other out to simply _this_.

House's mouth traces a moist path down the center of Wilson's chest, restless hands running all over him and Wilson's hyperventilating pretty embarrassingly by the time he hears the jangle of his belt, loud zipper. House licking up Wilson's cock through cotton before getting the material out of the way and closing his mouth over the head.

Wilson's eyes fly open and he has to lift himself up a little to watch, wondering if House has been practicing on lollipops and rubber bands all these years. Undignified slurpy sound when House sucks him in deep all at once, deliberate hands holding Wilson's hips down. Wilson falls back on the couch, melting with pleasure.

"Ah, that's good," Wilson says, unable to stop repeating it. He keeps trying to angle his hips up, obsessed with the resistance he's met with and the way he can't control how hard House sucks him. "That's _so_ good, ahhhHouse . . . yeah . . . so good . . ."

House licks up the vein on the underside, alternates flicking his tongue over the head and enveloping it with his slick mouth. He starts jerking Wilson slowly but firmly with one hand, takes him deeper with every stroke, sucking hard or tongue swirling around him. Wilson can't breathe, attempts to dislodge fistfuls of leather sofa to keep his orgasm at bay.

"Nnnnngg, _if-you-don't-stop-I'm-gonna-come_ . . . _ah_ . . ."

House's mouth detaches and Wilson's cock mourns the lack of attention, on the desperate side of hard and throbbing urgently by now. House's eyes bore into him from across Wilson's body, a little hypnotizing.

"Lie down," Wilson says, surprised to hear his voice so deep and resonant.

A shiver runs through House but he doesn't hesitate, maneuvers around while Wilson stands and strips out of his pants hastily, kicks his clothes into a semi-neat pile under the coffee table. House isn't entirely situated so Wilson pushes him the rest of the way down, gets on top of him without even thinking about House's leg until he winces a minute later, kisses him apologetically while he works House's jeans open.

"Take off your shirt," Wilson murmurs around his mouth, relishes the feeling of House's low groan and helps him pull his shirt over his head, slides down to kiss House's neck and shoulders and grind against him. Arousal returns with a new layer of urgency when House's hands tumble into Wilson's hair, warm and huge and tangling, and Wilson makes a noise and bucks against him a little harder.

"I dreamed about fucking you the other night," House says.

Wilson looks up. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Who wouldn't?"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah, I get that from patients all the time, House— _hey_ . . . mm." House yanking him up for a kiss by his hair was more of a turn on than Wilson would've thought, pain registering mistakenly as pleasure.

"Okay, enough of this," House says, and his hand closes around Wilson's cock and starts jerking him with intent. Wilson drops his head and pants, eventually has the presence of mind to stop digging his fingers into House's arms and reach down to return the favor. But House moves Wilson's hand away, seizes Wilson's hips to line them up better and starts to stroke both of them. Wilson groans and braces himself over House, limbs sticking to the cushions whenever he tries to thrust harder against him.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," House says, loud and impossibly low, eyes flickering over Wilson's face.

"Yeah . . ." Wilson bites his shoulder, goes boneless and moans against the wet skin while House speeds up his hand.

House's free hand snakes back into Wilson's hair to bring him down for a disjointed kiss, his eyes too close to focus on and his fingers tracing Wilson's lips when they break for air. Wilson sucks House's fingers into his mouth, unable to account for himself anymore, licks and groans around them until House closes his eyes and he feels wonderfully slutty and euphoric and so fucking engrossed in House . . .

Wilson pulls the digits out of his mouth, slams House's arm down over his head while his free hand teams up with House's to jerk them both faster.

"Oh fuck _ohfuck_." House keeps whispering it like it's a secret. Wilson just mutters _yes_ 's in response over and over again and closes his eyes against his impending orgasm, matches House's wonderfully ruthless pace and grinds down into him. Soon enough he feels warmth seep between them and hears House speaking in tongues and sees stars and implodes.

 

*

 

The TV zings back on and, as it turns out, that exciting story the news had teased about at the top of the hour is finally on. Wilson, a vision in low-riding dress pants and an open shirt, returns from the kitchen with beers in hand. He hands one to House as he sits down, props his legs up on the coffee table and heaves a sigh. House flicks the volume up.

"So do you wanna go out tomorrow night?" Wilson asks after the news. "And I do mean on a _date_ , in case there was any confusion . . ."

House shrugs. "We could always just stay in."

 

*


End file.
